


be honest, do you think I'm cute :)

by Authumnder



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26063251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authumnder/pseuds/Authumnder
Summary: “Well, I just think it’s very unfair that you refused to sell bread to me for not pronouncing the name right and then right after that you—”“I really don’t have time for this,” Elias cuts in, checking his wrist as if there’s a watch sitting there. There’s none. “Come back later when you can say kanellängd and I’ll give you one. Thanks and bye.”“I can see you doing nothing behind the counter,” Brock says, watching incredulously at Elias crouching there.“Have a nice day, Brock!” Elias replies, but it sounds like ‘have a shitty day ahead, you asshole.’
Relationships: Brock Boeser/Elias Pettersson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 164





	be honest, do you think I'm cute :)

**Author's Note:**

> this work has been in progress since january and today i pulled up gdocs and saw the file again and was like, "i'm so sick of seeing you here let's get you out," and for some reason unbeknownst to me i ended up finishing this? shocked surprised in disbelief. 
> 
> i just wanna read elias being like, super bold and brock being super oblivious in return. don't think i was really successful in conveying those but hey, it's here and it's done, so enjoy :) 
> 
> p.s. the file's name was initially "a guilty bite, huh?" from a red velvet song, which... actually isn't much better than the present one i guess lol. really sorry 4 the title!

Like so many clichés born before it; this story begins with a coffee shop.

More precisely, it starts when Brock’s having one of the worst days in his uni life, if not _the_ absolute worst, where he’s terribly late to his first class of the day with no hope of making it there at all (which means he wouldn’t be able to hand in his paper-based assignment that’s worth like 26% of his grade, which means he’s... failing that class, more or less), making him reroute to the in-school cafe that sells his favorite watered-down coffee and shitty pancakes, only to find out that said cafe has closed down due to... _low demand?_ Brock blinks at the announcement plastered all over their entry door.

“That’s bullshit,” Brock says to himself. He’s a regular in that place and it’s always, _always_ crowded. Immediately his brain’s coming up with conspiracy theories—which. Not great idea, brain, because now his head’s throbbing as well.

Brock has to step away from the shop, eventually, bidding it a heartfelt adios and promising to always think of its vanilla latte as the best caffeine he’s had in his life as a broke college student. That doesn’t solve his problem, though, he still has an armful of assignment possibly never going to be accepted and graded and another set for an entirely different class, 700 words away from being done. His plan was to finish it as he inhales breakfast, and obviously that plan’s gone down the drain with the closing revelation.

Then he remembers another coffee shop near the Literature building, and that’s where the story _officially_ begins.

***

The coffee shop doesn’t have a sign that’d tell Brock its name, looks very crappy to the point that Brock’s contemplating turning back—there’s no way a place like this sells drinkable coffee and/or edible food—but like, what other choice does he have? (The nearest cafe other than this one is eight buildings away, obviously Brock’s not gonna subject himself to walking that _far_.)

He powers through, in the end, pushing the heavy door open and flinching when the bell attached on it jingled loudly. Fuck, this is another proof that Brock’s coffee shop is better. It didn’t give him unnecessary headache upon entering.

There’s a guy behind the counter, back to Brock, too busy arranging...things on the table to actually notice him. Brock deliberately makes his Adidas scruff over the floor, knocks his knuckles on the counter when the first attempt doesn’t work, and then, when it also isn’t successful in getting the guy’s attention, he clears his throat. “Um, excuse me?”

The guy does turn, _finally_ , squinting his eyes at him like it’s Brock’s fault he has to serve a customer this early, which... technically _is_ Brock’s fault, but whatever. It’s _your_ job, dude.

“Good morning?” Brock tries, because the guy hasn’t stopped looking at him and it’s getting unnerving. He wonders a little how someone who looks so young can be super menacing as well. He must be a freshman, Brock thinks. “Can I get a vanilla latte?”

The kid nods then, grabbing a paper cup under the counter while still staring suspiciously at Brock. “Name?” he asks.

Another reason his coffee shop is better: their customer service doesn’t make Brock self-conscious. This kid makes Brock feel like he’s going to get thrown out of the place if he were to make a wrong step, even a tiny one. Which, what the fuck kind of wrong step is he gonna take? He’s here to buy coffee!

“Uh, it’s Brock,” he says.

The guy says his total, punching in Brock’s order and then motioning him to wait a bit as he turns and starts making his latte. Brock takes the moment to look around the place, eyes stuck on the display counter where many kinds of breads and cakes sit—he has to admit that the place smells amazing, sweet and coffee-y with a hint of chocolate, which causes Brock to regret his initial judgment of the cafe, crappy as it is. Well, the one about the barista still stands, considering the guy has yet to smile Brock’s way. Not that Brock’s hoping to get a smile from him, of course. Absolutely not.

“Hey, what’s this,” Brock asks after a moment, pointing at one of the breads. It looks nice and delicious, and he wants one.

The guy turns, Brock stealing a glance at his nametag, and says, “Kanellängd.”

“Kanellängd?” Brock repeats, slower, no doubt butchering the pronunciation. “Can I have one, Elias?” he thought saying the barista’s name would make him seem friendly, you know, like saying, ‘I care about the people who sell me my daily dose of caffeine enough to learn their names, you should be nice to me,’ but clearly it didn’t work since the only reaction he’s getting from Elias is a deep, deep frown.

“It’s Elias,” Elias says, like _E-lee-as_. Which means—fuck, not only did Brock butcher his bread pronunciation but the guy’s name as well. No wonder the guy hates him more.

“Um, sorry, _Elias_?” he tries again, in the dying hope that he’s not going to make it worse, but Elias already goes back to his coffee-making. “Can I have one of…” he considers saying the bread’s name, but decides against it, “...these?”

Elias looks at him, still with that pair of judgmental eyes, then at the display counter. Finally, as he hands Brock his cup, he says, “No.”

It takes a moment for Brock to register it. “No?” he repeats, hoping his ears have suddenly developed temporary deafness or something.

“No.” Elias says again, and that, that definitely wasn’t Brock’s ears acting up.

“I want to buy one of these,” Brock says, carefully, like it’s possible for the guy to misunderstand the meaning of the sentence, “and you have them on the display counter, so obviously you’re selling them?”

Elias stares at him. Fuck, it really, really is frightening. Brock feels like shivering. “We sell them,” Elias says. “Just not to people who can’t even say name properly.”

Brock is honestly gobsmacked.

“Here’s your coffee, door’s that way,” Elias speaks, right when Brock’s about to open his mouth. Then the bell chimes and another customer comes in, greeting Elias with a cheery good morning and reciting her unnecessarily complicated order.

Brock totally notices the way she pronounces the name of the bread she’d like along with her beverage, and he’s pretty sure that can’t be the correct pronunciation, but Elias doesn’t even blink, just retrieves the bread she wants and puts it in a paper bag.

“That can’t be the correct pronunciation,” Brock says, after the girl’s left with the bread whose name she butchered and an iced ‘triple, half-sweet, non-fat’ caramel macchiato.

Elias glares at him. “Why’re you still here,” he says, hostile.

Brock throws his hands up, to show that he’s harmless or whatever. Actually, it’d probably be better if he shows a bit of like, a wild side of him, to assert dominance or whatever the fuck. It’s too late, though, Elias’ seen the way Brock starts quivering when he stares at him too long.

“Well, I just think it’s very unfair that you refused to sell bread to me for not pronouncing the name right and then right after that you—”

“I really don’t have time for this,” Elias cuts in, checking his wrist as if there’s a watch sitting there. There’s none. “Come back later when you can say kanellängd and I’ll give you one. Thanks and bye.”

“I can see you doing nothing behind the counter,” Brock says, watching incredulously at Elias crouching there.

“Have a nice day, Brock!” Elias replies, but it sounds like ‘have a shitty day ahead, you asshole.’

Brock heaves a sigh and turns around. He’ll just have to check if there’s still breakfast leftover in the dining hall.

***

Brock googles it. He only finds that it’s a Swedish bread after too many attempts at spelling the name—which he isn’t proud of, deleting his browsing history right after. He tries to learn how to say it via Google Translate, but it sounds weird and unlike the way Elias did it, so he decides to corner one of the Swedish guys on the team at the next practice.

“How do you say _kanellängd_ correctly?”

“What is that,” Oscar says.

“ _Kanellängd_ ,” Brock repeats, slower, and when Oscar still looks confused as fuck, “like, the bread? Swedish bread. You’re Swedish, right?”

“Oh, you mean _kanellängd_.”

“Yes, that!” Brock exclaims excitedly. “Okay, teach me how to say it.”

***

Brock’s ready the next time he visits the (still unnamed) coffee shop. There’s a queue this time, served by another barista, but when Brock reaches the front he’s face to face with Elias again.

“Oh, it’s you,” Elias says, completely indifferent, and Brock resists the sudden urge to swallow down. Nope, not showing any weakness this time.

“Yes, good morning to you too, Elias,” Brock says with a polite smile. And, yep, he did learn how to pronounce Elias’ name correctly, because that’s just how Brock rolls.

Elias squints his eyes. “What can I get you?” he asks, unfriendly. What’s this guy’s deal, Brock really wants to know, but he’s also been told by people one too many times that he, apparently, ‘cares too much about what others think of him, which isn’t a problem, per se, but could he like, get a handle on that, because that surely wouldn’t hurt,’ so he won’t ask that question out loud to anyone, and definitely _not_ to Elias.

“Vanilla latte, please,” Brock says, then, “oh, and a kanellängd _.”_ He doesn’t say it all smug, though he’ll admit it’s _really_ hard to keep a straight face.

If Brock weren’t looking, he totally would miss the slight twitching of Elias’ eyes, and the way his mouth kind of curving up, but he is, indeed, looking, so he catches all of it. Brock’s suddenly overcome with pride, like ‘yeah, man, I learned how to pronounce the name of the foreign bread I’d like to buy _and_ your name, you’re welcome.’

Elias doesn’t say anything, though, just punches in Brock’s order, tells him his total, and moves to the next person behind Brock. It’s honestly anticlimactic, how it ends, not that Brock’s complaining, since he has his coffee and his breakfast in hand now.

He steals another glance at Elias before he leaves, and feels a shudder go through him when he catches Elias looking back.

***

Brock’s back to the coffee shop by the next day.

Okay, he might’ve been...forced to revisit his earlier assessment regarding it. The building is still shady as hell and one of the windows is cracked ominously, like one push and it’ll all crumble, but you really don’t gotta judge a shop by its cover, seriously, because the food? The food is fucking amazing.

Elias is behind the counter again, though for a change this time he isn’t really looking at Brock, which is probably why he greets Brock with a cheery, “Good morning!”

Brock freezes.

“Oh, it’s you again,” Elias says when he looks up, the—dare Brock say it—cute smile dropping from his face.

Brock forces himself to get it together. “Do you always greet a regular customer with a disappointed, _oh it’s you again_?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Are you joking? I’d be fired immediately,” Elias says with an impressive eye roll.

“You said that to me like, just now,” Brock points out, rolling his eyes as well. He doesn’t think he does a good job at it, but whatever.

“It’s a special treatment,” Elias says.

“Well then, can I just get a regular one? ‘Cause I don’t want it,”

Elias throws his face away—he’s stifling a laugh, Brock’s pretty sure, and honestly Brock doesn’t know why he feels so accomplished.

“Very ungrateful,” Elias says. “What is it this time? Vanilla latte?”

“I was thinking iced Americano, really,” Brock says. He’s kind of surprised Elias remembered his order, but Elias probably doesn’t reject serving a customer every day, so maybe that’s why Brock’s order stands out.

Elias nods. “No kanellängd?”

Brock shakes his head, looking around the display counter and deciding he wants another kind. “This one, please,” he says, pointing at it.

Elias opens his mouth like he’s about to tell Brock what the bread’s called, which looks kind of foreign, and nope, no way Brock’s taking any more chances.

“Don’t say the name!” Brock immediately cuts. “You’re just gonna make me say it _correctly_ again and turn me away if I can’t.”

“Well,” Elias says, biting his lower lip like he’s trying his best to not burst out laughing. “You’re not wrong?”

“I totally figured you out,” Brock muses.

“You haven’t, really,” Elias says with a snort, but he goes to pick the bread and shoves it into a paper bag.

Brock wants to retort some more, but there’s a queue behind him and he’d probably get another glare from Elias if he lingers further.

It’s only after he leaves the store when he realises the neat writing in the paperbag— _it’s called pulla, Brock, it’s not that hard to pronounce._

Well.

***

“Oh, now I see why you’re so hard-assed about coming here,” Gaudy says.

Brock follows his line of sight and sputters uselessly.

“He’s totally your type,” Gaudy whistles, annoying like he always is, and honestly Brock has no one but himself to blame for this. He should’ve gone to any other coffee shop but Elias’, but like, he was craving something sweet and it’s been _days_ since he last visited, and he misses...the breads. Yup. The breads. That’s all.

“He is really _not_.” Brock snaps, elbowing Gaudy on the side. Thankfully the cafe is crowded and full of chatters, otherwise Elias would hear their conversation and Brock would, no doubt, get another murder glare directed at him.

“Oh, he totally _is_ , Boes, don’t front.”

“ _Don’t front_ ,” Brock repeats in disbelief. “Shut up. That guy already hates me as it is, I don’t need you making things worse.” Plus, he probably can’t take it if Elias decides not to serve him _again_ , he needs his daily caffeine, okay?

Gaudy throws his hands up, like he’s given up, which. Fine, Brock will take that and hope for the best.

Turns out he doesn’t need to worry at all, because by the time they reach the counter Gaudy’s on his best behaviour, and Elias isn’t even...looking at him, treats him the same way he treated the customers before them, which. Brock doesn’t know what to think of it. He definitely doesn’t miss the hostile expression or the passive aggressive greeting—but witnessing the indifference kind of, what’s the word, _not_ hurts, exactly, but it’s not pleasant either?

Gaudy already drags him away from the cafe before Brock can say something stupid, though.

“I don’t think he hates you,” Gaudy says.

“He isn’t usually that nice,” Brock replies, still kind of perplexed. “That was _really_ weird.”

“What, you get off from being mistreated?” Gaudy says, laughing, and pushes back when Brock nudges him.

But it isn’t funny, Brock doesn’t think.

***

It’s another few days when Brock gets the chance to drop by. Or, not a chance, per se, considering it’s almost nine and Brock’s not even sure the coffee shop’s still open, but he just got out of the library after finishing a 5000 word essay on Business Ethics and he doesn’t think he can make it back to his room without consuming at least a drop of caffeine, so, worth a try.

It’s obvious the place’s about to close, not that there’s any ‘closed’ sign on the window—the cafe is...not functional enough to have that open/closed sign, Brock guesses—but the chairs have been moved atop the tables and there isn’t any customer around, except for Brock, and there isn’t any barista behind the counter. That is, until Brock hears someone belting a, “We’re closed!” and then there’s Elias, standing behind the counter in a tight white tee and messy hair and missing his apron.

Brock, for lack of any better description, chokes. He just didn’t expect Elias to look so—he doesn’t know, just not like _that_ , okay? And it’s hard to process everything all at once, especially since Brock’s sure he’s currently suffering a fried brain. Or something. Definitely something relating to his brain, though.

“Oh, it’s you,” Elias says, easy, like Brock isn’t a few feet away from him panicking. He stops rubbing the counter with a napkin and motions Brock to come closer. “I can probably whip up something for you.”

Brock forces himself to laugh at that. It sounds like the last sound a dying animal would make. “Oh, um. Special treatment, right?” he says.

“Don’t be weird,” Elias replies, casting Brock a pointed look. “Not gonna let you choose, though. You will have whatever I make you.”

“...Sure?” Brock says even though that sounds ominous as fuck coming from Elias—considering their earlier history, if even it’s allowed to be called history—but like, caffeine is caffeine. Brock will take whatever at this point.

“Nothing strong,” Elias says, nodding to himself, and begins working on it.

Yeah, that’s probably for the best. Brock would like to be able to fall asleep tonight, please.

Brock only finds out the drink Elias’d made him is actually a hot chocolate after the second sip, which might or might not be the obvious signal that Brock’s brain is really not in a good condition right now. He needs some fresh air, definitely.

He takes another sip as he watches Elias watching him—again, if Brock were a little bit more _himself_ , he’d already be shuddering, but as it is, he only raises an eyebrow at Elias’ blatant scrutiny.

“Good?” Elias asks after a moment.

Brock nods. It is, seriously, truly a heaven to have after the day (and night) Brock’s had. He owes Elias one for this. When Brocks asks how much he has to pay, Elias shakes his head.

“I didn’t key in your order,” Elias says and, sure enough, the computer isn’t even on right now. “You can pay in many other ways instead.”

That, were it come from literally any other person _but_ Elias, would have come off sleazy and creepy and absolutely would have made Brock balk; but, again, this is indeed Elias, and everything he says either sounds perfectly sincere or downright spiteful to Brock. There is no in between.

“Well,” Brock says, swallowing once, twice, because the beverage suddenly seems too sweet in his mouth. “Mind telling me one?”

He’s half expecting to hear something along the line of ‘don’t show up here ever again and we’re peachy’ or at least the sugarcoated version of it, but Elias just grins in this friendly way—which is not exactly _unlike_ him, Brock’s seen the way he interacts with customers and he’s always nice and affable, but like, directed at Brock? Yeah, that one’s new.

“Help me close up,” Elias says, thankfully before Brock can do something stupid like grins widely back.

“Okay,” he agrees, finishing his now lukewarm chocolate before placing the empty cup on the counter.

That isn’t a hardship at all, considering everything’s already organized and the only thing left to do is wash the cup he’s holding and lock up the doors—door, actually, like one, singular door.

“That doesn’t seem really safe,” Brock comments, standing a few feet away behind where Elias’s trying his best to snap the lock in place. The lock finally gives up after three more tries.

“Just try unlock this,” Elias says, “if you can.”

“No, thanks,” Brock says, shaking his head, because the lock does look stubborn and probably won’t budge under the hands of unexperienced people like him. “So… I guess I’ll see you tomorrow? I’ll probably need coffee tomorrow.”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Not gonna walk me home?”

Brock stops fiddling with his sleeve. Uh, _what_?

“What happens with… what’s the word… chival-something—”

“Chivalry?” Brock fills in, still confused as fuck.

“Yes, that!” Elias replies. “I made you hot chocolate, _free_ hot chocolate, and you’re just gonna leave me stranded here?”

That doesn’t make sense. No one’s leaving anyone stranded here, they’re nowhere near a jungle where you can get lost easily, and sure, the campus is big and sometimes confusing enough to navigate through, but even then it wouldn’t be like _stranded_ stranded. Plus, it’s not like Brock _refused_ to pay, Elias was the one who say he could just help him close up and—what the fuck is Brock trying to say?

“Jesus Christ,” says Elias in response to Brock’s mindless babble, exasperated sounding, then, “I don’t live that far, Brock,”

Fine, it’s not like he’s in a hurry to get back or something, and the walk will probably help with the fried brain condition he’s currently having, so. Win-win, Brock guesses. He just doesn’t get Elias’s sudden interest in him—or his company, more like—considering, you know, the fact that they’re not actual friends and Brock’s just some random customer to Elias?

“I mean, I figured I should probably make the first move,” Elias says, and could be that Brock’s head is so much worse than he initially thought because _that_? Doesn’t make sense either? Like, literally nothing that has happened tonight made sense to Brock. He wonders if he accidentally broke his brain for using it too hard.

Elias must caught the blank look on Brock’s face, because he adds, “I know what you’re trying to do. I’m just making it easier for you,” which, unfortunately, explains jackshit about whatever the hell is happening right now.

“I’m… not sure about easier,” Brock frowns. “Sorry, but, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, c’mon,” says Elias, kicking a pebble away. His movements look sulky, his tone _is_ sulky, and Brock just—doesn’t understand. “You came in the shop very often, and you always have this, this _look_ on your face when you’re looking at me, which Marky and I agree has to mean something.”

“Um,” Brock says, opens his mouth, closes it again because—what the hell? “By, uh, ‘this look,’ do you mean, like, tired and sleep-deprived? ‘Cause, yeah, my face does that a lot.” He slips in a nervous laugh to lessen the mood, closes his mouth again when it doesn’t really work. “Also, who’s Marky?”

Elias stops walking, and Brock does, too, because he feels like Elias’s about to say something important and it’d be super rude of him to go ahead and leave him behind. _Except_ Elias doesn’t really say anything, just stands there under the dim street lamps probably in need of maintenance, hair fiery bright and salient in the pseudo-darkness, staring at Brock with an eyebrow raised like _he’s_ waiting for Brock to break the ice.

Brock gets it now, kind of. He racks his brain for something to say—Elias and his stare never get less unnerving after some time, do they? Or maybe it’s just that Brock isn’t immune to them. Whichever. Point is, it’s getting late and things are going to go from awkward to simply _unpleasant_ in a matter of seconds if they’re forced to stay here any longer.

“I think you make delectable beverage?” Brock says, at the end. Voices it like a question instead of a statement it was supposed to be. Can’t find it in himself to regret it, because at least Elias’s smiling now, a little exasperated and forced, sure, but it’s still one, Brock’s pretty sure.

“Thanks,” Elias says. He starts walking again, wide strides like he can’t wait to leave Brock behind. Brock follows him, trying to match their steps, even though there’s niggling something that tells him he probably should scram, that things are just _wrong_ right now. Brock isn’t a coward though, thank you, he’ll go through the bottom of this face-first.

“I feel like you’re mad at me,” he says, a little breathless after the hurried walks. He’d feel ashamed of his stamina if not for the more serious problem currently at hand. “Are you mad at me?”

Elias, at the very least, slows down his pace. “I am just thinking,” he says.

“Well, do it more leisurely?” Brock suggests.

“‘Kay,” Elias replies, and starts walking again. Leisurely, this time. He stops in front of a dorm building Brock’s not really familiar with and points at a bench nearby. “Let’s got sit there,”

This is getting out of hand, Brock thinks to himself, but doesn’t object. It’s not too bad, anyway, the wind’s nice against his skin, and Elias doesn’t seem like he’s about to murder Brock anymore.

“Okay, so, here’s the thing,” Elias starts to say. “Marky and I think it’s weird that you keep coming back to the cafe after I refused to sell you bread—and before you ask again, Marky’s our baker—so, like, logically we think you have another motive.”

“Another… motive?” Brock parrots back, feeling so fucking inept and out of his depth.

Elias nods his head. “Yes. Fact number one: generally, people don’t come back to our cafe after being given less than satisfactory service. I refused to sell you bread once, which Marky says is even _worse_ than giving ‘less than satisfactory service,’ but you still come anyway. Fact number two: you didn’t even try to complain about my being mean to you to like, my manager or something, which I can confidently tell you would do absolute jackshit because we don’t have one of those, Marky’s the owner, and he likes me enough, so have fun trying to convince him to fire me. Fact number three—”

“Hold up,” Brock brings up a hand, “can we get to the conclusion? I mean, I’d gladly listen to the rest… of the facts any other time, but I kind of have a headache right now?”

“All right then. Conclusion: you like me.” Elias says.

Brock tries to like, re-register the words, because he’s pretty sure he heard it wrong the first time. Could it really be that Elias accidentally misspoke some words? Maybe he didn’t mean to say the word _like_?

“Um,” Brock ends up saying, “maybe I just _really_ like the coffee? And the breads?”

Elias heaves a sigh. “This is why you should’ve listened to Fact Number Three, there’s more explanation about why the coffee and bread combined aren’t enough to keep you visiting.” He says, then adds, “But don’t feel pressured. It’s a little impossible for both _my_ logic and _Marky’s_ logic to be wrong, but I guess it’s still possible.”

“Uh, sure,” Brock says, for lack of anything to say.

“But be honest to me, though—do you _not_ like me?”

This dude’s really bold, Brock thinks. “I mean, personally I think you’re really neat?” he replies, cringing inwardly right after. It’s kind of the truth, anyway. Brock definitely doesn’t _not_ like Elias, he’s quite sure about that, and it seems like he _thinks_ about Elias often enough that saying ‘I have no feelings about you’ might just, you know, not cut it.

“Neat.” Elias repeats, nodding his head. “Is that a good thing?”

“Well, kinda?” Brock says.

“Okay, then,” Elias says, getting up from the bench. “I’m gonna head back now. Bye, Brock.”

Brock isn’t sure why does it, but he calls Elias back. “Is that it?” he asks, when Elias’ in front of him again.

“Yes? What else is there to say?” Elias asks.

Right. _What else is there to say_? Still, he feels like this conversation shouldn’t end here, at this part, like there’s something else needing to be discussed. Which is really weird, considering the words Brock’s successfully uttered in the last five minutes were mostly comprised of confused _uh_ s and questions that were supposed to be statements.

“Thinking someone is neat is very different from liking them,” Elias says again, finally, after a second of awkward silence. He makes a face at himself, which Brock thinks shouldn’t be as cute as it is. And then he surprises himself by thinking that Elias has never really looked less than _cute_ before—even on last Tuesday when there’s a very long queue in the cafe and only Elias behind the counter; sporting messy hair, rumpled apron, and flour-streaked cheeks because apparently he’s been helping Marky the baker in the kitchen. There’s also that first week when all Elias did is glare at him from behind the cash register and Brock’s brain still managed to think of him as adorable. Intimidating, yes, but definitely _also_ adorable.

And now glancing at him under the moonlight, Brock realises that maybe both Elias’ and Marky the baker’s logic weren’t so faulty, after all.

“Okay, so,” Brock begins, “can I revoke my opinion? Or not _revoke_ , more like, uh, add something else?”

Elias shrugs, kind of jerkily, and Brock is very, very sorry for putting him through this. Damn you, fried brain.

“I don’t _just_ think of you as neat. Like, that’s not all there is, you know. I also happen to think of you as uh, adorable?”

Elias frowns—it’s the unnerving one he wore when Brock butchered the pronunciation of _kanellangd_. Brock feels like he shouldn’t get _that_ as a reaction after admitting that he thinks Elias’ adorable. He’s starting to worry and this close to backpedal when Elias says: “Grown men aren’t supposed to be ‘adorable,’” complete with the imaginary quotation.

“You _are_ adorable,” Brock says, helplessly. “And I’d _really_ like to take you out on a date.”

“Okay, that’s good enough,” Elias says, and the smile he’s wearing is unquestionably—dare Brock say it— _adorable._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you sm for reading! tell me what you think if you liked it :D


End file.
